Meeting the Doctor
by Claire Michelle
Summary: If you met the Doctor, it actually wouldn't be anything like what you'd expect.


If you met the Doctor, it actually wouldn't be anything like what you'd expect. He wouldn't look like Matt Smith, or David Tennant, or Tom Baker or any of the other actors.

Really, you'd only go out of your room for a drink. Your bedroom may be a wonderfully secluded cave, but you can't deny your need for water. You'd walk over to the kitchen, and there would be a man, just standing and looking around. You'd stop mid-step. Why was he in here? Did someone else let him in?

He'd spot you and smile. "Hi!" he'd greet enthusiastically.

_Ugh, too social. Can't they just leave you alone? _You'd stare at him in confusion. "Uh, hi," you would reply. You'd look at him a little impatiently. He's blocking your way.

He'd mistake your awkward glances, of course. "Oh, right, I'm sorry," he'd apologize, shuffling bashfully. Then he'd extend a hand. "I'm the doctor."

"What doctor?" you'd ask. Was someone sick?

"Just the doctor."

You'd shake his hand, still a bit confused. "Doctor who?"

He'd smirk. "I love it when they ask that," he'd mumble, more to himself than to you. "The Doctor, just the Doctor. People call me that. I do too, but I'm not really sure why."

_Not exactly how the line goes, but okay._ You'd chuckle a bit. "Right, where's the TARDIS, then?" If he was going to roleplay, he'd better do it right.

His smirk widened. "You're well-informed. It's just outside; do you wanna see it?" he'd ask with a little flick of his head towards the door.

_Oh, man. Did he bring an actual police box?_ "Yeah," you'd reply, a bit bewildered.

"Come on," he'd practically giggle. He'd run over to the door, coat whipping around like a cape. _A coat like Ten's!_

You'd realize that you're smiling, but you wouldn't care. How often does something like this happen?

When you reached the outside, you'd see it. Your jaw would drop a bit. _The TARDIS..._

He'd turn around to make sure you followed. He'd see your surprise and beam. "Well, are you coming in or not?"

A smile would break out on your face. You wouldn't be able to contain yourself. You'd run as quickly as possible to the TARDIS—the blue police box at the edge of your driveway. _It's here! The TARDIS!_

You'd get to it and pause. You'd realize: this is real life. The TARDIS isn't real. Don't get your hopes up.

He'd open the door—pushing, not pulling—but only enough for him to enter. He'd turn around and look at you with that giddy little grin on his face, eyes twinkling with joy. "You ready?" he'd ask, barely able to contain himself as well. You'd nod your head frantically—telling yourself to be calm, but your heart racing at the presence of that wonderful blue box.

He'd widen the opening quickly, trying to show you all of it at once. And you'd just be amazed. The TARDIS. The actual TARDIS. It's fucking _real._

You'd enter, of course. How could you not? And the Doctor would just be prancing around, overjoyed with his new toy (not that you'd admit to being his toy). He'd ramble about, explaining how it worked. But you'd know all about it. You'd know everything about it—eleven dimensional, the broken chameleon circuit, the wibbley wobbley timey wimey stuff—everything. _And it's real!_

"Bigger on the inside," you'd mumble to yourself. The beloved saying.

"I know! It's great!" he'd exclaim. "Beautiful thing," he'd comment, fiddling with buttons and levers on the panels.

_How is this happening,_ you'd wonder. It was, after all, just a television show, right? "Do you…watch TV here on Earth?" you'd ask, trying to make sense of it all.

He'd chuckle. Someone entering the TARDIS for the first time and then asking about television. "Not much, but every now and then," he'd respond.

"Then do you…" You'd trail off, of course. If he didn't know about the show, you couldn't just reveal it to him. It went against all rules of intradimensional conversation. Right?

"Yes, I know about the show," he'd chuckle. "Very inconvenient—I have to lock this thing everywhere I go. Everyone thinks they can just walk into any police box, any time they want. And," he'd exclaim, pointing his sonic screwdriver at you, "I _am_ a ginger, and I'll have you know it's not as fun as they make it sound! It's just hair!" You'd smile at his ruffled expression beneath his _ginger_ curls. _He's just so…Doctor._

"So, is it all true, then? The rest of it?" you'd ask.

"No, not all of it. I'm a bit older, unfortunately. But I am _not_ on my eleventh regeneration. Bloody reckless they are on that show. A new body every two years or so."

"How many regenerations have you had then?" you'd ask, dying of curiosity.

"Seven. Or rather, six," he'd correct himself, confused at the phrasing. "This is my seventh body, so six regenerations."

"Your sonic screwdriver—is it the same?"

"Just about." He'd continue fidgeting with the controls.

A small smile would creep onto your lips. "Still doesn't work on wood?"

"I've almost fixed that, actually," he'd clarify. You'd laugh. Of course the Doctor wouldn't have anyone poking fun at his screwdriver.

"This is amazing," you'd comment, looking around at the TARDIS. "Why are you here, though?"

He'd shrug. "Being alone gets boring. No one's here to comment on my brilliance."

_Please don't let this end._ Eventually though, you'd run out of questions. He'd answer and explain about all the differences between his life and the show. He'd talk about the TARDIS sound. He'd explain that he leaves the brakes on intentionally, just to hear that sound—that beautiful sound.

But eventually, he'd look at you seriously. There'd be that spark in his eye—that mischievous, excited, wonderful spark. And he'd ask you one very important question. "Do you want to come with me?"


End file.
